


Amidst These Flashing Lights

by DasWarSchonKaputt



Category: Glee
Genre: Community: kbl-reversebang, F/M, M/M, PR Guru AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-06
Updated: 2014-07-06
Packaged: 2018-02-07 17:02:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,203
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1906905
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DasWarSchonKaputt/pseuds/DasWarSchonKaputt
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When you work in a job that leads to rubbing shoulders with some of the hottest names to grace the silver screens, it’s easy, Blaine supposes, to lose yourself in the glamour of it all. To drown in the romance of the moment – the thrill of excitement that comes with thinking you’re living a real life fairy tale. It’s effortless.</p><p>And that’s what makes Blaine feel so stupid about all this.</p><p> </p><p>  <i>Or: in which Kurt is one of the leading PR specialists in Hollywood, Blaine is his summer intern, and Cooper is a movie star with a terrible taste in women.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Amidst These Flashing Lights

**Author's Note:**

> **Warnings:** Mentions of past attempted murder from a significant other, and at one point someone's significant other throws a beer bottle at their head.
> 
> So this is my piece for the reversebang. I don't even know what I was thinking when I wrote it. Let us never speak of this again, okay?

Maybe it’s a mistake, but for the first time since he’s met Kurt, Blaine doesn’t think. He doesn’t draw up arguments in his head, doesn’t chant them again and again like a mantra.

He just presses their lips together and finally, _finally,_ he can breathe.

* * *

 

**PART ONE: RULE ONE  
_Don’t mix business with pleasure – don’t fuck clients, don’t fuck your co-workers, don’t fuck your boss._**

* * *

 

Everybody grows up.

Just… Not everybody grows up like Blaine.

The press, of course, love the sob-story attached to Blaine’s upbringing. Nevermind that it’s a far cry away from whatever rags-to-riches garbage they plaster over the headlines when Blaine hits fourteen – they were never poor, never _starving,_ or destitute – but, Blaine will concede, there’s a certain poetic beauty to the tale of the orphaned older brother who made it big to put his younger sibling through college.

After their parents died in a car-crash when Blaine was twelve, Cooper was the one who stopped everything from falling apart. He dropped out of college, moved halfway across the country to LA, and made sure Blaine didn’t suddenly decide to go do something stupid, like join a gang or get a tattoo.

When Cooper sets his sights on the silver screen – sometime around Blaine’s fourteenth birthday – it’s Blaine’s turn to stop his older brother from screwing up his career before it’s even begun.

Which, Blaine would like to point out, is in fact a lot harder than preventing a straight-A student from wandering off down the road of teenage delinquency.

Stopping Cooper from pointing at reporters during interviews _(it’s rude, it’s obnoxious and it makes you look like an idiot, Coop)_ turns into screening his tweets ( _God, Coop, calling any powerful public figure a ‘trumped-up money-grabbing fuckwad’ is not acceptable behaviour, no matter how true it may be),_ which in turn turns into taking over Cooper’s talkshow appearances _(for the last time, Cooper, you can’t double book shows and then tell the two hosts to battle it out for your appearance)_ , which once more turns into talking to the police about getting a restraining order after one of Cooper’s ex-girlfriend tries to burn them both alive. Twice. _(Holy God, Cooper, is psychotic and sexy your **type**?!)_

He doesn’t set out with the intention of becoming some sort of publicist for Cooper; it just _happens._

Before Blaine knows it, he’s sixteen years old, still in high school and playing the fame game with all the finesse of a seasoned veteran. High school turns into college and minimal free time turns into _no_ free time – what little dating life he has disappears pretty much overnight. His college roommate blithely asks him if his subscription to nearly thirteen gossip rags and a further four magazines aimed at preteen girls is a ‘gay thing’ and Blaine wonders if he cares enough to answer no.

Cooper tells him again and again to leave the PR to someone else – he has money for this now; this shouldn’t even be an option – but Blaine can’t let go. It feels like home, going through the motions of press releases and _E!Online_ exclusives, and sometimes it strikes Blaine that this is the only thing he can control without uncertainty or error.

After Cooper’s fifth psychotic girlfriend tries to push him off a hotel balcony, and Blaine finds himself standing alone in his brother’s apartment, calling the police _again,_ he realises that he can’t keep doing this.

He’s always thought that managing Cooper’s career was safe. Familiar. Easy. Something akin to muscle memory.

(It’s not, though, he’ll realise later. It’s quick-thinking and stress and too much coffee; it’s visiting his brother in LA only to find out he’s going to be spending his break in the hospital again.)

But that’s not always going to be a good thing.

So – twenty years old, too young to drink, too old to play it safe – Blaine pulls up a web browser, searches for summer internships in LA, and takes the first one that accepts his application.

And that’s how it all starts.

* * *

 

**_Cooper Anderson Hospitalised After Lovers’ Tiff Turns Violent_ **

_Just three weeks after Cooper Anderson introduced the world to his new girlfriend, Rebecca Webber, the relationship turned sour. Emergency services were called to the LA Grand Hotel at around midnight last night after the actor got into an argument with his girlfriend during their anniversary celebrations._

_Witnesses say that Anderson and his girlfriend were having champagne on the balcony when the argument broke out, before she took the bottle and smashed it over his head. Webber then allegedly used the resulting shock from the blow to push Anderson off the edge and send him crashing down into the pool area below._

_The actor sustained moderate injuries, but will likely recover in time to complete the projects to which he has committed. Webber is currently in police custody and awaiting bail. According to Anderson’s publicist, “Mr Anderson will be pressing charges for the attack made against him, but first asks that his fans and supporters respect his request for privacy and quiet during this hard time.”_

_Cooper’s only surviving family member, his younger brother, also reiterates this request, saying in a statement to the press, “This is a hard time for all those involved. I understand that many of you are angry on Cooper’s behalf, and that many of you are worried for him, because I am too, but we need to give him some time and space.”_

**NOTES:**  
Start screening all Coop’s potential dates – talk to George.  
Call professors – extensions on assignments, sympathy leave?

* * *

 

Despite whatever Santana says to the contrary, Kurt doesn’t make his decision to hire Blaine Anderson for the position of their summer intern based on the fact that the twenty year-old college student is cute.

Of course, there’s no denying that Blaine _is_ cute, with his tailored shirts and Disney-prince smile, but Kurt is a _professional._ He doesn’t hire his employees based solely on their looks. That would be breaching several employment regulations.

So, nope _. Nil point_. Nothing to do with it at all.

“ _Really_?” Santana drawls, dragging out every syllable in the word. She’s leaning against the polished wooden doorframe that serves as an entry point to Kurt’s office, arms crossed and eyebrows raised. “So, remind me again why we’re hiring a barely-out-of-puberty-let-alone-high-school kid with _zero_ qualifications as opposed to one of the highly-experienced and over-qualified graduates that are ready to duke it out Battle Royale style for this internship?”

“It’s not—” Kurt breaks off irritably, searching his desk for the file he needs for his upcoming client meeting. “I don’t have time to have this argument with you _again,_ Santana. We’re hiring Blaine Anderson and that’s final.”

The look Santana gives him is pretty much the epitome of, _who the fuck do you think you’re kidding?_

“When I asked for a copy of the interview notes, you gave me a drawing of his eyes with the word ‘soulful’ written underneath them and underlined several times,” she states flatly. “Admit it, Hummel, you totally want in those skin-tight pants of his.”

“Shut up, Santana,” Kurt commands, and he really fucking needs this file to turn up _right now,_ or he’s going to be late. “First off, we both know that was a mistake, because _no one in this office seems to be able to file anything ever,”_ he throws open a draw of his desk and starts rooting through it to no avail,“and I ended up handing you the concept art for Starchild’s new album. Secondly, I am not above firing you, so either do something helpful, like _find this goddamn file,_ or _leave me alone_ about the Blaine Anderson issue. Rachel and I made our decision, and – as I seem to recall – you didn’t want anything to do with hiring our summer intern, so if you don’t like our decision, then _tough._ ”

Santana crosses his office to stand over his desk, which currently looks like a bomb hit it -- a _nuclear_ bomb. “Oh, _please,_ Hummel,” Santana tells him. “We both know that Berry’s just your gay-enabler. And she probably feels some kind of kinship with him -- a fellow hobbit so far from the Shire.”

Sometimes, Kurt really wonders why he ever thought it was a good idea to hire Santana Lopez; she has an innate ability to offend multiple minorities and ethnic groups in barely one breath. It’s probably less a case of lack of tact and more a case of lack of giving a damn. Of course, then, he remembers that Santana is fucking terrifying – she was terrifying in high school; she’s terrifying now – and when dealing with the press, that’s an added bonus.

Hummel Berry PR represent one of the leading companies currently in the public relations game, despite being relatively new players. Kurt co-founded the company with a recently retired-from-Broadway Rachel when they were both twenty-three, and it only grew from there.

Their first big client – Elliott Gilbert, AKA Starchild – was more a case of Kurt doing a favour for his old college roommate from NYU than a bid for success. No one – not Kurt and most certainly not Elliott – anticipated just how big the name of Starchild would become, or how much Kurt would grow to love his job.

Sure, it’s demanding, and high-stress – the type of job you _live_ rather than have – but he loves every second of it. What’s more: he’s _good_ at it.

Elliott’s breakthrough propelled Kurt into the big leagues of PR – threw him in at the deep end – and he was still trying to figure out how to swim when Rachel turned up on his doorstep in LA with a list of ex-Broadway-stars-cum-potential-clients as long as her arm and asked for a job.

Santana was next to join the fold, essentially choosing one day to turn up on their doorstep and demand a job, and most of the time – _most_ of the time – Kurt thinks that he made the right choice, saying yes.

“I will fire you,” Kurt repeats, but by this point he’s barely focused at all on what Santana’s saying. Where the hell did he put that file, anyway?

“No, you won’t,” comes Santana’s self-assured reply. She smirks. “And, if you’re looking for the Smythe documents, you left them in Rachel’s office when you had your business meeting there.”

Kurt’s hands freeze in the desk draw. He groans, because, yeah, he remembers now. “I will _fire_ you,” he tells Santana seriously, gathering himself together and leaving his office.

Santana merely widens her smirk. “No, you won’t.”

And damn it, she’s right.

* * *

**_Sebastian Smythe to Play Lead in Upcoming Drama,_ Centerfold**

_The actor, best known for his seven year-long role as Fergus Mason on the hit US soap,_ As Day Breaks, _announced yesterday that he had just accepted the lead part in Fox’s upcoming teen drama,_ Centerfold.

 _According to Sebastian, the series is about “a young model who ends up getting in over his head – it gets quite dark later on.” This darkness, however, is something Sebastian looks forward to exploring. “It’s a different role to Fergus,” he tells us. “Fergus kind of accepted the more savage aspects of his family, whereas my character [on_ Centerfold _] isn’t going to fall into the abyss without a fight.”_

 _Filming for_ Centerfold _is due to start in June, with the intent of premiering on screen in October._

* * *

Blaine finds out about Cooper’s new girlfriend about the same time that Felicity finds out about him.

It’s not a well-known fact that Blaine is Cooper’s brother – Cooper’s number one priority in PR has always been to try and shield Blaine from the media, which, all things considered, failed in _some_ if not _most_ ways – and Felicity looks ready to call the police when she spots Blaine in Cooper’s kitchen, calmly drinking coffee over the morning paper.

“Morning,” Blaine greets her calmly, raising his mug at her.

Felicity is, simply put, Cooper’s type down to a tee – a leggy brunette with cascades of perfect hair and a charming smile – which terrifies Blaine slightly. Cooper’s _type_ doesn’t exactly have a good record when it comes to passing the minimum sanity requirement.

He introduces himself as Cooper’s publicist, because it’s easier to prove than being his brother, and flashes her his old business card. Felicity purses her lips at it in distaste, but after a brief moment of indecision, takes a seat at the counter.

“Want some?” Blaine asks, indicating the half-full pot of coffee sitting on the kitchen surface behind him.

Felicity narrows her eyes at Blaine, before she finally says, “Black.” She pauses, then adds, “Two sugars.”

Blaine nods and turns to search through Cooper’s cupboards for a mug that isn’t guaranteed to offend whoever is given it. Cooper has a thing for novelty mugs with decidedly un-PC slogans painted across them – the most memorable of which is white with a black handle and the letters ‘UNT’ printed across it.

“So,” Felicity says. She drags the syllable out long enough that it feels more like two separate words rather than one. “Is this the part where you write me a cheque and tell me to keep my mouth shut about sleeping with your client?”

Blaine spots a plain blue mug right at the back of one of Cooper’s cupboards. “Depends,” he says calmly. “Did you film it?”

“No, of course n—”

“Audio?” he continues. “Photographs? Liveblog? No?” He shakes his head. “Then you’ve got squat. The tabloids won’t publish it when they’ve only got your testimony to go off – too much room for a lawsuit. Besides, celebrities having sex lives?” Blaine shrugs. “The public is long past the point where they expect their favourite stars to be celibate.”

Blaine hands her over the mug of steaming liquid. He watches her take a long sip and then place it on the counter, turning her gaze to Blaine and eyeing him critically.

“If you’re not going to offer me money in some misguided attempt to get me to leave Cooper alone,” she says, “what are you doing here?”

“Stopping by on my way to work,” Blaine answers neatly, but Felicity merely narrows her eyes further at him.

“You’re a bit young to work in PR, aren’t you?” she asks pointedly.

“I’m twenty,” Blaine points out. He’s not sure if it comes out defensive or resigned. Knowing him, it probably ends up at some awkward mid-point that doesn’t really commit to either sentiment properly. “And I’ve been dabbling in the business for over six years now.”

Any further conversation the two of them may have is cut off by Cooper emerging from the master bedroom, looking, well, looking like the dictionary definition of _debauched._ He’s sporting an epic case of bed-hair and the dress shirt that he’s lazily thrown over his torso is missing over _half_ its buttons – Blaine is looking at _you_ , Felicity – but he’s smiling. It’s the full-on, mega-watt, could-power-a-city-for-a-month smile that won Cooper his first major movie role.

Blaine figures that that smile tells him all he needs to know about how Cooper feels about his girlfriend.

That’s not to say that he leaves without a half-serious threat of, “I work in PR – you break his heart and I can and will drag every last one of your skeletons _out_ of the closet,” or that he doesn’t tease Coop just a _tiny bit._

His brother is smitten, and for once, the girl doesn’t look like she’s going to shoot someone any time soon.

* * *

“He _what?!”_

Cell-phone still pressed to his ear, Kurt furiously brings up google and punches in the search criteria, and, _shit._

**_WRONG DAY TO QUIT SMOKING_ **

**_TALK SHOW HOST TURNS VIOLENT!_ **

**_BIG MOUTH, BIG FIST_ **

**_SPEAK SOFTLY AND CARRY A BIG STICK – ST JAMES IN BAR FIGHT_ **

There are pages and pages and _pages_ of results – it’s everywhere. As far as Kurt can see, there isn’t a single major celebrity news site that _isn’t_ reporting on the story, and they all have the same high-quality image blown up to accompany the text.

Kurt really doesn’t need this shit today.

Today is the day that Blaine Anderson – their new intern – joins the fold. It’s supposed to be a light and easy day, when Kurt can bring him up to speed and answer any questions the college student may have about the company. It’s not supposed to be—

 _This_.

“I don’t give a _damn_ that they called his mother a whore,” Kurt practically spits down the phone. “The fact that some drunk insulted St James’ pedigree is not what’s all over the front covers of the tabloids. Wanna know what’s all over the tabloids? A picture of Jesse St Fucking James _braining_ a guy with a fucking _ash tray_!”

Kurt takes a deep breath as he listens to Rachel babble on the other end of the phone. She’s almost at Jesse’s residence; taking into account the crowd of paparazzi that will be doubtlessly surrounding the condo, she should reach him in twenty minutes’ time.

“Well thank fuck for small mercies,” Kurt says. “I’m going to get on the phone to some of my contacts at the police – see how far the victim wants to take this with the law. _Then_ I’m going to draft a statement to release some time tomorrow; we need to get on top of this, _stat._ Stick with St James – tell him that if he so much as _looks_ at a reporter without my say-so, _I’ll_ brain _him_ with an ash tray and then make him choke on the fucking irony.”

After Rachel makes a sound of acknowledgement, Kurt hits the ‘end call’ button with what is probably far too much aggression. Fuck. Fuckity fucking fuck _damn._

“Santana!” Kurt calls, leaning back in his chair so that he can see out into the hallway. He catches Santana’s eye and beckons her into the office.

“So I take it you heard about St James?” she asks, perching on the edge of Kurt’s desk.

“If by _heard_ you mean _saw the fucking news articles,_ ” Kurt says. “Jesus Christ, Santana, why did we ever think it was a good idea to take on _Jesse St James_ as a client?”

Santana shrugs. “The bonus we got for signing him paid for your new car?” she suggests, but shakes her head. “What do you need me to do?”

Kurt pauses for a second, running through the list of tasks he’s compiling in his head. “Rachel’s headed over to him now, making sure he doesn’t have any other bright ideas,” Kurt says, running his hands through his perfectly coifed hair. “So, getting on the phone to your girlfriend might be a good idea. We’re going to need a lawyer, and Brittany’s the only criminal law specialist I trust not to screw us over.”

Santana nods, then pauses. “What about our new intern?”

“Give him some grunt work – trawling through old articles or something,” Kurt tells her. “Just—anything to keep him busy and out of the way.”

Santana nods and leaves the room, pulling her phone out of her pocket as she goes. Kurt watches her exit and then sinks his head into his hands.

This is really not the day for this.

Taking a deep, steadying breath, Kurt lifts his head up and reaches for his office phone.

* * *

**_COOPER ANDERSON: “FAMILY ALWAYS COMES FIRST.”_ **

_It took Cooper Anderson all of three seconds of screen time to win over America’s heart in his debut role as the quirky copy editor, Simon Dartford, in_ One to One. _His performance may not have won him an award, but it launched him into the spotlight and once we had him in our sights, we just couldn’t get enough._

_Despite Cooper’s professional success, the same can’t be said for his love life. Currently single, and with a list of ‘crazy ex’ stories as long as his arm, Cooper jokingly calls himself “undateable.”_

_“That’s not all, though, I guess,” Cooper told us. “I mean, I lost my parents when I was barely nineteen. My brother and I only had each other and that – that sort of affects you, you know? So, if a girl I’m dating says something rude or offensive about my brother, it’s never going to get to another date. Thanks but no thanks, I guess. Family always comes first.”_

**NOTES:**  
Coop, stop telling people that ‘you guess’. If you’re not sure, don’t say it.  
And I love you too, ~~even if you have the worst taste in girls ever~~.

* * *

As Blaine gazes up at the high-rise building that is home to Hummel Berry PR, he can’t help but be struck by how unconditionally intimidating it is.

Before he accepted the placement, Blaine looked the company up online and was subsequently surprised to find a full-fleshed out Wikipedia page on it. These guys hold their place among the leaders in the industry, with clientele ranging from the political activist, Tina Cohen-Chang, to the cocky but charming TV star, Sebastian Smythe, to the guy whose songs seem to be played on repeat on every radio station _ever,_ Starchild.

And that’s not to mention the fact that they’re almost as new to the industry as Blaine is – they were founded just under five years ago by a guy fresh out of college.

So, yeah, Blaine finds the prospect of working at Hummel Berry PR just a tiny bit terrifying.

Blaine tweaks his bow-tie one last time and pushes through the large revolving doors of the building.

The interior of the office block is pretty standard as far as Hollywood goes. It’s all set out with the same professional modernism that Blaine has come to expect when he meets with executives and agents alike – bright lights and sharp corners, large areas of blank space and artistically placed statues that don’t really resemble anything. He files himself into the uncrowded elevator, presses the button that reads, ‘ _Hummel Berry PR’_ and waits for the lift to take him up.

 _This is what you do, Blaine,_ he tells himself. _You know how to do this._

The doors ping open.

And he knows it should feel like an anti-climax, because there’s no way that this could be anything other than that, but it doesn’t. The pressure doesn’t loosen up; it just keeps building and building and building and—

“Hey, Hobbit, _move._ ”

Blaine startles and looks up to come face to face with the most aggressively attractive woman he’s ever met.

“Are you even _listening_ to me? _Move._ ”

A pair of perfectly manicured hands shove into Blaine’s side and he stumbles as he’s forcibly shifted three feet to the left.

The woman pushes past him, then pauses. “Wait,” she says, turning back around, her eyes narrowing at him. “You’re Blaine Anderson, aren’t you?”

Blaine blinks. “Yeah?”

To his surprise, the woman groans. “ _Perfect,_ ” she mutters, then straightens up. “OK, I’m Santana Lopez and, for all intents and purposes, for the next eight weeks of your life, you’re going to be my bitch. I say _jump,_ you say _how high_ – capiche?”

“Uh, yes?” Blaine says.

“Was that an answer or a question?” Santana asks, but shakes her head. “You know what – I don’t care. Right, well, our secretary’s on maternity leave and her replacement called in sick today, so for the next—” she looks down at her watch “—eight hours, you’re going to be fielding calls and booking appointments. I have things to do, people to bribe, days to ruin, so…” She narrows her eyes. “So, what are you waiting for? Jump to it.”

And with that, she’s gone, and Blaine’s left with the distinct feeling he’s just come head-to-head with a force of nature.

* * *

**_Elliott Gilbert on Fame, Coming Out, and How His College Roommate Changed His Life_ **

_Elliott Gilbert, better known by his stage-name Starchild, has had something of a whirlwind career. From recording CDs on his laptop in his dorm room to selling them on a street corner in New York to singing in a state of the art recording studio in LA, Elliott’s rise to fame has been both rapid and dramatic._

_And, apparently, it all started off with his college roommate._

_“I roomed with a great guy in college,” Elliott reveals. “His name was Kurt and we shared a couple of classes freshman year, but he was one of the only friends I managed to make in the big city. When we moved out of the dorms and into an apartment, we kept in touch, and, when all of this started to happen, he was there for me to stop me from screwing up.”_

_When asked if he’s still in touch with ‘Kurt’, Elliott laughs. “Aren’t I just?” he asks. “Kurt actually got pretty successful himself – he works as a PR specialist now. My publicist is one of his sub-contractors and we still have a pretty great relationship.”_

_It was also Kurt who handled Elliott’s image in the media – including his decision to come out at the start of his career._

_“Yeah,” Elliott says with a nod. “To me, being ‘in the closet’ wasn’t ever going to be an option for me. Not that I don’t think I could play it straight – I have great faith in my acting abilities – but because I think it would have destroyed me as a person if I’d done that. Kurt and I agreed that trying to wait it out for a better time to ‘come out’ would be a bad choice, and he did such a great job of making sure the information was out there, but not_ out there _, you know? I didn’t want any fanfare – I just wanted to make music.”_

* * *

By his third hour of answering the phone with a cordial, “Hummel Berry PR, how may I help you?” Blaine is seriously considering wrapping the extension cord around his neck and just being done with it all. He’s been through nearly four cups of coffee, six games of chess against the AI on his phone and _all_ of his rather substantial reserves of patience.

Contrary to the general consensus of his generation, Blaine knows the importance of reading _all_ of the terms and conditions before signing on the dotted line. He _read_ the description of his internship before he applied, and apart from the typical tea and coffee duties, Blaine wasn’t supposed to be doing brainless tasks.

This isn’t what he signed up for. He’s not here to have some glorified role as a secretary, or as a PA – he’s here to _learn,_ here to grow as a publicist and as a person.

So, he’s a mite bit pissed off.

The phone rings and Blaine has to bite his tongue to stop himself from sounding impolite.

OK, maybe he’s more than a _mite_ bit pissed off.

Blaine deals with the call the same way he’s dealt with all the other calls – “I’m sorry, Ma’am, but she’s not in the office at the moment. May I take a message?” – and hangs up.

His phone buzzes with a  new text, interrupting his next attempt at checkmate.

**_Cooper:  
_ ** _Why did Felicity freak out when I told her you were my brother? She just kept going on and on about a sex tape or something. Do I want to know?_

Blaine barely hesitates before typing out a reply.

**_Blaine:  
_ ** _Not really._

**_Cooper:  
_ ** _It says something that I’m happy to just leave it at that, doesn’t it? How’s work?_

Blaine glances at the office phone for a second, before he shakes his head and, instead of texting back, hits dial.

“ _Hey, is it your break or something?”_ Cooper asks almost the second he picks up. “ _I didn’t think you’d be free to talk.”_

Blaine sighs. “Oh, I’m free alright,” he says. “I’m so very, very free.”

 _“That sounds ominous,”_ Cooper says easily. “ _Has something happened?”_

Blaine leans back in his chair and resists the urge to put his feet up on his desk. “No,” he replies. “Nothing has happened. I kind of wish it had. Might make me a little less inclined to quit.”

“ _What’s going on?”_

“I don’t have a clue,” Blaine answers. “They’ve just left me alone in the office, answering phones and beating the high scores on all the games I have on my cell.”

Cooper snorts. “ _Sounds enthralling,_ ” he comments.

“That’s one way of putting it,” Blaine supposes. “Just – who the hell leaves a new intern alone in the office on their first day of work? Isn’t that just asking for something to happen? I mean, for all they know, I could be out to steal their computers and flog ‘em on eBay, or something. **”**

 **“** _So, why don’t you?”_ Cooper asks.

Blaine stills. “I’m going to pretend you didn’t say that, Coop,” he says. “Because I’m not entirely sure you’re joking.”

“ _What?”_ Cooper pauses. “ _No, not the computers. Well, if you want to, but that’s not what I meant. I meant, why don’t take a look around? You’re alone right? No one’s going to know if you leave your post for a five minute tour, so why not just go for it?”_

Blaine’s eyes flicker to the glass door that leads to the rest of the offices – currently bathed in a dim half-light – and shakes his head. “I’m not sure that’s such a good idea, Coop.”

“ _Oh, lighten up. What’s the worst that can happen? They fire you?”_

“They _arrest_ me,” Blaine corrects, but Cooper just laughs.

“ _For what, Squirt?”_ he asks. “ _And it’s not like anyone will find out anyway, so why not?”_

“It’s not a good idea,” Blaine insists.

Yeah, Blaine, why not?

He’s alone, right?

No one will know if he leaves his post for like five minutes, right?

Industry regulations dictate that they’re supposed to give him a break in an hour’s time, right?

Blaine purses his lips, looking once more to the darkened offices behind him. Oh, screw it. He didn’t get where he is by playing it safe. Decision made, Blaine stands at his desk and walks over to the glass doorway.

He throws yet another glance back at the reception area and then pushes the glass door open.

* * *

When Kurt is finally done with his third and final draft of the press-release, he’s long since passed by ‘stressed’ and is now comfortably in the region of ‘frazzled’. His hair has been twisted into disarray and he’s pretty sure some of it has turned grey over the five or so hours he’s spent vacillating between making overly-charming phone calls and writing it all out.

Santana left the office just under three hours ago to try and talk to the victim in person and then called an hour ago to tell Kurt that she was going to be some time.

Which leaves Kurt alone and trying to find the correct words to explain his crappy taste in clients in a cup of lukewarm coffee.

It’s even less fun than it sounds.

Kurt hits print just as he hears Santana re-enter the offices and feels some of the tension drain out of his shoulders. Any news would be good news right now – he needs to know what they’re going to be dealing with. He straightens his tie, checks his shirt for sweat-patches or stains and then pushes up from his desk and exits into the hall.

He spots Santana standing in the middle of the hallway and—

 _That’s_ not Santana.

“What are you doing here?” Kurt asks, causing the figure to startle. He watches as the dark-haired man turns around and…

Kurt’s suddenly very glad that he checked his shirt for stains before leaving his office.

* * *

Holy. Sweet. Hell.

This guy is—he’s out of Blaine’s league, that’s what he is. Stupidly, ridiculously, so completely and utterly _out_ of his league. He’s wearing a suit that Blaine’s pretty sure he last saw in _Vogue_ and has cheekbones that a lesser man would quite literally kill for. And there’s something about his eyes – they’re weirdly expressive. Enthralling. They’re the type of eyes that Blaine could see himself getting lost in for hours at a time and not even caring.

And, to top it all off, Blaine is pretty sure that this guy is his boss.

So, yeah, he’s out of Blaine’s league. By several miles.

“Hi,” Blaine says, pretending very hard like he has no idea that he’s not supposed to be here. “I’m Blaine Anderson. Your new intern.”

“Kurt Hummel,” Kurt says smoothly, sticking his hand out and shaking Blaine’s, and, oh holy God, his _voice._ “Didn’t Santana give you something to do?”

“Uh,” Blaine stumbles. “Yeah, I was, uh—I was answering phones, but, uh—”

Kurt smiles at him and it leaves Blaine feeling like he’s missing out on a joke. “Clearly we didn’t hire you for your eloquence, did we?” he asks, but it feels fond.

 _I don’t usually stumble over words like a teenager trying to talk to their crush,_ Blaine thinks, but what he says is a self-deprecating declaration of, “Probably not.”

“You any better with reading?” Kurt asks, tilting his head to the side and raking his gaze up and down Blaine’s form.

Blaine swallows thickly and tries to ignore just how invasive Kurt’s stare feels. “Much better,” he assures.

“Good,” Kurt says. “I have a press-release I’d like you to proof-read.”

Blaine blinks slowly, but Kurt simply turns around and beckons him to follow into his office. Upon entering said office, the first thing that strikes Blaine is how badly organised everything is – Kurt seems to be operating under the principal on which the floordrobe is based.

“This is … busy,” Blaine comments, side-stepping to avoid a teetering stack of folders.

Kurt ignores the comment. “Do you know of Jesse St James?” he asks instead.

“Yeah,” Blaine says. “Talk show host, kind of an asshole?”

Kurt hums in agreement and picks a printout up from his printer. “Last night he got severely drunk and smacked a guy round the head with a an ashtray,” he explains. “Unfortunately for us, he’s our client.”

“Ah.”

“Yeah,” Kurt agrees easily. “’Ah’ is right. Santana – Lopez, that is; she’s one of the partners here – is over at the hospital right now trying to speak to the victim. Rachel – she’s the Berry part of Hummel Berry PR – is with our client right now, making phone calls and making sure he doesn’t do anything else that’ll make me miss the days of sex-tapes and photos of celebrities shooting themselves up with heroin.”

Kurt hands Blaine a printout of his press-release and a red pen. Blaine takes them and allows himself to be guided into a seat in front of Kurt’s desk.

“Sounds like it’s been a challenging day,” he comments, turning his gaze down to the press-release in front of him. It feels comforting, almost, to see something like this – the familiar awkward third-person, half-formal, half-familiar tone he’s come to associate with press-releases – and finally, Blaine feels like this internship isn’t going to have been a mistake.

“Trust me,” Kurt says. “You don’t know the half of it.”

Blaine circles a glaring example of a comma splice and taps the paper thoughtfully. “You got a game plan for controlling the story in the press, or are you just going to try and wait for it to blow over?”

“Lucky for us,” Kurt says, “the press are like six-year olds with ADD. If we just give them something shinier and more jaw-dropping to squee over, they’ll move on.”

“The gossip rags, maybe,” Blaine concedes, “but this sort of story is big enough to make it into major newspapers. All you need is some CEO with an axe to grind and things like this get splashed all over primetime.” Blaine pauses. “And are you really sure you want to call it a ‘mistake’? Doesn’t that kind of trivialise it?”

“It doesn’t say mistake,” Kurt says.

Blaine raises his eyebrows. “It does, third paragraph down, two sentences in.”

Kurt snatches the printout back and scribbles something over it. He hands it back and Blaine sees that the word ‘mistake’ has been crossed out and replaced with ‘incident’.

“Are you even sure a press-release is the best way to go about this?” Blaine asks. “If you just want the story to go away, doesn’t releasing a statement just give the media more ammo to come at you with? The talk show, uh—”

“ _St James Says,_ ” Kurt supplies.

“Yeah, that,” Blaine continues. “It’s on its off-season. It’s not on air at the moment, right? So, you don’t have to worry about a drop in ratings, and like you said, soon enough the press will have something else to focus on.”

Kurt tilts his head at Blaine. “How long have you been working in PR, Blaine?” he asks.

Blaine shrugs. “A while,” he admits.

“The technique you cited only really works if you have radio silence on both sides,” Kurt says. “If we’re keeping quiet whilst the guy St James brained is giving interviews left, right and centre, it’ll look a lot worse than if we come out with a statement immediately.”

“But he’s not, is he?” Blaine asks. “Your assault victim isn’t coming out with any statements whatsoever—”

“But that won’t always be the case,” Kurt cuts in. “We don’t have a _clue_ what sort of action the victim is going to want to take – we don’t even know his _name_ for crying out loud—”

“Zachery Eirikson,” comes a voice from the doorway.

Both Kurt and Blaine’s heads snap up in tandem, focusing in on the figure poised for, well, Blaine isn’t sure what it is, but it looks seductive whatever the case.

“Santana,” Kurt greets, nodding cordially.

“’Sup Hummel,” Santana replies, then narrows her eyes at Blaine. “Hobbit,” she acknowledges and lets herself collapse on the sofa in the office gracefully. “So,” she says. “I have good news and bad news.”

Kurt quirks an eyebrow at her. “Go on,” he tells her.

Blaine watches Santana spin herself around so that she’s sat up properly. “Well, the bad news – the guy that Jesse brained? He’s seventeen.”

Oh.

That’s… That’s bad. That’s very bad. Blaine can still remember the media shitstorm that hit the newspapers when it came out that a co-stars in one of Cooper’s films had gotten into a bar-fight with an underage kid. It had ended in _weeks_ of defamation, and the subsequent firing of the actor from their role.

It’s kind of obvious why: no one likes people who hit kids.

Kurt seems to share Blaine’s thoughts. He stares at Santana, face blank. “Please tell me this is a joke,” he says flatly. “You’re telling a joke.”

“Nope,” Santana says, popping the ‘p’. “Zachery Eirikson, high school student. His father owns the bar. He was just stopping by to tell his dad that he had a date and wouldn’t be home until later.”

Kurt throws his head back and groans. “This is going to be so fucking cataclysmic,” he murmurs.

“Oh no,” Santana interrupts. “I’m not done with the bad news yet. So, seventeen year-old assault victim we can deal with that, but here’s the _really_ terrible thing: his date later that night? It was with a guy.”

 _And there’s the nail in the coffin_ , Blaine thinks. It won’t matter how au fait Jesse St James is with gay people in reality; as soon as the press find out, any reporter worth their wages will be putting a hate crime spin on the story.

“Oh _kill me now,_ ” Kurt says. “I don’t get paid enough to deal with this shit.”

Santana shakes her head. “Kurt,” she says. “I hate to break it to you, but this shit is _exactly_ the reason you’re paid so much.”

“This good news better be some kind of miracle,” Kurt tells Santana seriously.

She grins, digs in her handbag and hold up a bunch of pieces of paper. Blaine squints at the document in question, and then feels his mouth fall open.

“Is this what I think it is?” he asks as Kurt takes the paper from Santana.

“Oh yes.” Santana smirks. “It’s _exactly_ what you think it is. But don’t you dare think it was easy getting that – there were all sorts of negotiations and St James is going to be putting Zachery through college and probably grad school _and_ paying for his first house, but—”

“You got Zachery Eirikson to sign a non-disclosure agreement,” Kurt states dumbly, and flicks through the pages beneath it. “And the other patrons at the bar.” He openly gapes at Santana, who merely nods smugly. “You have never been more attractive to me than you are in this moment.”

Santana smirks. “Much as I’d _love_ to engage in what would no doubt be a fabulous _nuit de passion_ with you, Hot Stuff,” she says, “I’m taken and I’d much rather cash in the favour I’ve won by making you pay for my drinks.”

“It’s barely three o’clock in the afternoon,” Blaine points out, but finds himself silenced by a glare from Santana.

Kurt purses his lips and taps his fingers against his leg. “Okay,” he says. “How much longer do you need on that press-release, Blaine?”

“Five minutes, tops,” Blaine says.

Kurt nods. “The worst of this has passed,” he says. “Once Blaine is done with the press-release, Santana, you can go crazy on it – I’ve put something in there about Jesse starting to go to anger management classes, so we’ll get Rachel to warm him up to the idea. When she’s done with that, she’s off Jesse-watch. She can join us when she finally gets through LA’s traffic.”

Blaine frowns, scanning through the last paragraph and underlining a couple of phrases. “Shall I—go?” he asks.

Kurt claps him on the shoulder. “Oh no,” he says. “ _You_ are picking the bar. Consider this a secondary job interview.”

Blaine puts the statement down. “I’m twenty years old,” he tells them.

“Mm,” Santana hums. “And you look sixteen. I’m not going to be buying you any drinks.”

“No,” Blaine continues. “I mean, I don’t _go_ to bars. How the hell am I supposed to pick one?”

Kurt smiles. “Rule number two, Blaine: fake it ‘til you make it.”

* * *

Blaine doesn’t drink.

He knows it’s not a popular choice around his age-group – drinking laws aside – but after an unsavoury experience at college ended in him waking up in a stranger’s bed with a throbbing headache and missing his clothes, he’s pretty firmly resolved against it. Cooper calls him a wimp, his roommate calls him a bore, but Blaine’s pretty sure he wins some favour with Kurt Hummel when he informs him of his state as tea-total.

“That’s kind of unusual,” Kurt states with a smile. In the background, Santana’s already downing her fifth shot – Blaine’s fingers have been poised to call 911 ever since she started throwing herself towards alcohol poisoning with all the eagerness of a newly-minted twenty-one year-old.

“Not really,” Blaine replies, shrugging off the feeling of nausea that comes to him whenever he remembers that morning.

Luckily, Blaine is saved from any further digging from his new boss when a young woman with lavish brown hair – Rachel, Blaine remembers from his Skype interview for the job – enters the bar and slides into a seat next to Kurt.

“It’s lovely to finally meet you in person,” Rachel says with a disarming smile. She sticks her hand out for Blaine to shake.

“It’s a pleasure,” Blaine says, putting down his glass of water and reaching out to take Rachel’s outstretched hand.

Kurt, however, is frowning at Rachel – or, more specifically, her neck. In a sudden movement, he reaches over and flicks her hair away from her shoulder, revealing the scattering of circular bruises on her neck.

“Rachel,” Kurt sighs.

Rachel immediately moves her hair back into place, flushing. “What?”

“You know what,” Kurt says. “Rule one, Rachel, _rule one._ ”

Blaine turns to Santana, who’s sat beside him and, surprisingly enough, still holding onto at least the appearance of sobriety. “What’s rule one?” he asks.

Santana takes a sip from her drink. “Don’t mix _business_ with _pleasure,_ ” she recites.

“Meaning?”

Santana snorts. “Don’t fuck clients, don’t fuck your co-workers, don’t fuck your boss.”

_Don’t fuck clients._

“So, Rachel…” Blaine prompts.

“Has an on-off thing with Jesse St James that we keep trying to get her to drop,” Santana answers, then makes a face.

“What?” Blaine asks.

“You’ve got the look on your face,” Santana informs him. “You’re sat there thinking, _Why make her drop it?_ Look, I don’t know how long you’ve been working in the business and quite frankly I don’t care. The fact of the matter is that you don’t see many stories about celebrities running off into the sunset with their publicist. Wanna know why? It’s because we spend our lives cleaning up after famous people, and we’ve spent so long trying to smooth over all the grit and ugliness of Hollywood for the rest of the world, that we’re not going to be taken in by some smooth-talking asshat with an Emmy and a charming smile. I know St James, and I know Berry – it won’t end well.” She seems to run out of steam at the end, instead choosing to sigh into her drink. “It never ends well.”

Blaine casts a glance over at Kurt, who catches his eye and smiles back.

_Rule one, Anderson. Rule one._

* * *

**PART TWO: RULE TWO  
_Fake it ‘til you make it. Truth is relative – pick one that works._**

* * *

 

Blaine has been working for Hummel Berry PR for just over two weeks and he still isn’t over how unfairly attractive his boss is.

It sounds childish to even his own ears, but it just isn’t _fair._ Kurt is like some kind of freakin’ Adonis, or something and – what’s more – actually gay.

He’s also Blaine’s boss, which puts him far out of bounds.

It’s not just Kurt’s own policy – the fabled _rule one_ of PR – but Blaine’s own basic morals and standards that prevent him from throwing caution to the wind and slamming Kurt into the nearest hard surface. Sleeping with your boss is so beyond tacky that Blaine’s not even going to consider it. Besides, Cooper would _never_ let him live it down if he ever found out, and he would find out, because there seems to be this weird ethos between them of ‘no secrets’.

There are worse ways to spend his summer, though, he supposes. Hummel Berry PR are great at what they do – be it crisis control, or consultancy work, or just general press control  – and Santana seems to have finally clued in that Blaine actually knows what he’s doing, so he’s off secretary duty, which was always going to be a plus.

For the most part, Blaine spends his days shadowing Kurt, which consists of about four parts trying not to stare at his boss’s ass ( _rule one, rule one, rule one, you have standards, Anderson),_ and six parts trying not to make a fool out of himself in front of Kurt’s clients.

One of whom just so happens to be Elliott Gilbert, the guy whose music Blaine has had playing on repeat ever since he discovered him on YouTube about five years ago.

“So you must be the infamous intern,” Elliott says by way of an introduction, reaching out with his hand and grasping Blaine’s fingers in his grip.

“Blaine,” Kurt says, stepping aside, “this is Elliott Gilbert – also known as Starchild – he’s one of our clients. Elliott, this our summer intern, Blaine Anderson.”

Elliott’s face twists into an expression that looks to be a cross between a frown and a smile. “Any relation to Cooper Anderson, the actor?”

“He’s my older brother,” Blaine replies with a smile of his own.

Elliott grins. “Did Kurt ever tell you about the time he had a massive—”

Kurt slaps a hand over Elliott’s mouth. “Okay,” he says, “let’s move onto the business portion of this meeting.”

Elliott grins when Kurt removes his hand. “I’ll tell you later,” he mouths.

* * *

 

“Did you know that my boss used to have a phenomenally huge crush on you?” Blaine asks Cooper as they sit down for their weekly dinner together. They’re out at some secluded restaurant Cooper found when he was out with Felicity earlier the week.

Cooper gives Blaine a quizzical look from above his menu. “Do you want me to send him a headshot or something?” he asks.

“ _No,_ ” Blaine says, maybe too quickly. Thankfully the novelty of sending off autographed headshots has long since worn off for Cooper; Blaine can still remember a day when Cooper would just as soon give you his headshot as his business card. “Just thought it was a point of interest.”

“Blaine, half of America has had a crush on me at some point,” Cooper tells his brother seriously.

Blaine shakes his head. “And _there’s_ the fabled Cooper Anderson humility,” he teases.

Cooper reacts by kicking him under the table.

“How’s life with Felicity?” Blaine asks.

Cooper sighs.

“What?”

“Okay,” Cooper says. “Come on. Lay it on me: how many different databases did you run her name through?”

“I can’t believe you think I’d do that,” Blaine starts to say, but drops off when he sees the look on Cooper’s face. “Four,” he relents.

“And?” Cooper prompts.

Blaine takes a sip of his water. “Not much,” he admits. “She’s recently divorced – her ex took her for pretty much everything she had – and she doesn’t have a criminal record. Oh, and she has a subscription to _New Scientist._ ”

“So she passes your ridiculously high standards?” Cooper asks.

Blaine snorts. “I don’t think _not about to kill my brother_ is a particularly high bar to set, Coop, but yes, she passes my vetting process.”

Cooper grins and raises his glass of wine to his lips. “I really like her, you know.”

Blaine nods. “I know.”

Cooper leans back in his chair, closing the menu in front of him. “Well, I’ve chosen,” he says. “So, tell me about this boss of yours. He has a crush on me?”

“ _Had_ ,” Blaine corrects immediately. “And it wasn’t even from your good stuff. You’re going to hate this – it was from those credit score commercials you did.”

The look of abject horror that passes over Cooper’s face does a lot to ease the slight tinge of jealousy that has been stubbornly rooted in Blaine’s gut ever since Elliott told him.

* * *

Blaine meets James Pope on a Wednesday.

Blaine knows a lot about the celebrity scene, a fact that never ceases to make him question his life choices. It says a lot about you as a person when you’re more likely to know which celebrities are in rehab than who the Vice President of the USA is – and Blaine’s not entirely sure he likes what it says about him.

That said, he’s by no means an encyclopaedia of celebrity knowledge and there are times when he has no idea who people are talking about.

And he has absolutely no idea who James Pope is until he manages to get a few seconds aside with Kurt and ask him.

“He’s a musician,” Kurt explains quietly. “He does ballady songs – the type that make single and married women alike all the world over swoon.”

And meeting James, Blaine can kind of see why. With a boyish face, an enviable physique and a set of manners that make Blaine’s own pale in comparison, James Pope kind of screams _All American Boy Next Door._ He’s gorgeous and kind and spends the first five minutes of their meeting smiling at Blaine with his too-white teeth.

He’s also bisexual, and therein lies the problem.

“I want to come out,” James explains, “and I’ve talked to my lawyers – there’s nothing in my contract with my record label preventing that from happening – but from what I can gather, it’s a bit more complicated than that.”

Kurt taps his pen against his legal pad, running his tongue over his teeth in a way that Blaine knows indicates him thinking something over. “You’re right,” he eventually agrees. “Even in today’s market, coming out can have severe negative repercussions in regards to your career – both from your fanbase and from your record label.”

“But it’s something you can work with?” James presses. “I mean, I saw what you did with Elliott Gilbert, and Sebastian Smythe – you guys are the industry experts on this sort of thing, right?”

Blaine blinks – he hadn’t known that – and shoots Kurt a look. Kurt nods imperceptibly at the unspoken question.

“We can work with it, yes,” Kurt says, turning back to James. “It may, in some ways, be easier because you’re bisexual as opposed to gay. Someone with a career like yours – where your success is partially built on the fact that a lot of women like to imagine themselves as the subject of your songs – would have it harder if that element was completely cut out by your sexuality. Part of the problem, however, is going to be with so-called ‘bisexual invisibility’.”

“Meaning?” James prompts.

“Basically,” Blaine speaks up, catching Kurt’s eye. “It’s not unusual for people to feel that bisexuality doesn’t exist – that people are either attracted to men or to women – which means that a lot of our time is going to have to be taken up with correcting the common misconceptions about bisexuality.”

Kurt pauses. “Before we go on, how many people know as of current?”

James shrugs. “I don’t know,” he hedges. “Fourteen, maybe? My mom and dad, my little sister, my ex-girlfriend…” He trails off.

“Okay,” Kurt nods, “how many of those are likely to say anything to the press?”

James shakes his head. “None of them,” he says quickly. “Well, maybe my ex, as she kind of didn’t take the news well, but she’s in Europe and really hates talking to the press. I’ve been careful with who I tell.”

“Do your publicist and agent know?” Kurt asks, making a note on his pad of paper.

James nods. “Yeah,” he says. “Anna was the one who made me this appointment with you guys. She said that you’d probably be our best bet for coming out of this on top.” He winks at Blaine. “No pun intended.”

Blaine feels himself freeze up. Flirting in professional environments has always made him feel uncomfortable – ever since one of Cooper’s _female_ co-stars spent a good three hours on set hitting on him when he was visiting his brother on set – and working at Hummel Berry PR has thus far been no exception.

Kurt’s mouth twists into a look of harsh disapproval – _rule one, Anderson_ – and he straightens himself up before speaking again. “In general,” he says. “You have two options. Option A is a slow and gradual progress towards coming out. It’s not my preferred method, but it’s probably the easier to control of the two.”

“And option B?” James asks.

“Band-Aid,” Kurt answers. “Short and sudden and everything rushes at you at once. It’s near impossible to control completely – it’s undoubtedly going to create a media shitstorm every time – but it’s the least painful and it leaves less room for a screw up. Given that you’re not coming out as Kinsey-Six, I think that the second choice is probably your best bet – the media frenzy will make it easier to get a clear message out.”

James pauses. “Do I have to decide now?”

Kurt shakes his head. “There’s no deadline on you coming out, is there?” he says calmly. “Give us a call when you make your decision.”

“And you won’t tell anyone?”

“We wouldn’t get many clients if we didn’t have a reputation for discretion,” Kurt informs him wryly. “If you do sign on with us – as consultants or as full-time publicists – there’s a clause in the contract that would prevent us from taking anything we learn about you to the press, or we would be at risk from a lawsuit.”

James smiles, catching Blaine’s eye. “I’ll think it over,” he says.

Blaine shifts uncomfortably in his seat.

* * *

By Friday, James Pope has been by the office on no less than six separate instances, each time with a progressively weaker excuse and a progressively flirtier smile.

Kurt’s starting to get pissed off, Santana thinks it’s pathetic and Rachel is somewhat bewildered.

And Blaine is faced with the terrifying idea that the popstar could be interested in him.

* * *

**_Reasons Not To Date James Pope_ **

_1\. He’s in the closet_

_2\. He’s probably an asshole_

_3\. It won’t end well._

_~~4\. Kurt~~ _

_4\. Rule one._

* * *

They feel like excuses.

Each time Blaine thinks of a reason to add to his list, he comes up with a counter reason just as quickly. It’s infuriating and confusing, and Blaine makes the mistake of asking his work colleagues for advice.

“No,” Kurt says shortly. “It’s a bad idea.”

“But why?” Blaine asks, skirting around the sofa in Kurt’s office.

“It just is,” Kurt tells him. “Rule one, Blaine. These sorts of relationships never end well.”

“Will you two just stand still?” Rachel asks opposite them. “I’m trying to get the camera set up and you’re not helping.”

“I don’t know why you’re so set on celebrating our company anniversary each year, Berry,” Santana says from her position slouching on the couch. “It’s just a date.”

“So is Christmas, Santana,” Rachel retorts. “It’s tradition. Now shut up and let me set up the camera.”

“That reason’s not good enough,” Blaine tells Kurt. “What aren’t you saying?”

Kurt sighs and runs a hand through his hair. “Look, Blaine,” he says. “You have to look at the situation pragmatically. James Pope is worth more in name alone than my house, car and earthly possessions combined. He could have anyone—”

Blaine feels his mouth drop open, anger flooding into his veins. “Screw you, Kurt,” he says. “He _likes_ me. Why the fuck is that so hard to believe?”

“That’s not what I meant,” Kurt replies hotly. “You know that’s not what I meant.”

“No, I really don’t,” Blaine says. “So fuck you, Kurt.”

“Guys, cut it out,” Rachel commands. “I’m taking the photo, and so help me God, if you’re not smiling, one of you is gonna die.”

Neither of them smiles.

* * *

**_Cooper Anderson’s New Lover?_ **

_Just this Thursday, none other than Cooper Anderson was spotted enjoying a romantic candle-lit meal with an unidentified female (picture on left) at La Belle Dame. The couple reportedly shared dessert before leaving together hand-in-hand._

_It’s good to see our favourite filmstar back on the horse after his previous dating disasters. Here’s hoping this relationship turns out better than his previous ones!_

* * *

When Blaine starts to date James Pope, he’s completely prepared for the multitude of things that could go wrong with their relationship. Someone could find out and tell the press, James could get bored of Blaine, Blaine could get bored of James, just—

Blaine never saw what really happened coming.

It doesn’t end well.

It really doesn’t end well.

* * *

**PART THREE: RULE THREE  
_Divide and conquer. If you’re going to do defamation, don’t go halfway._**

* * *

 

It’s raining.

It never rains in LA.

It’s raining, his face hurts, and all he can think of is that freaking frog in the hot water.

If you put a frog in boiling water, it will jump right back out. If you put it in cold water and gradually heat it up, the frog will just sit there and gradually roast alive. And Blaine is that stupid-ass frog.

* * *

 

“I don’t like it,” Kurt says for the sixth time that night. “It’s a client.”

Santana rolls her eyes. “We know you don’t like it, Kurt,” she tells him dryly. “You won’t let us forget it.”

“He’s going to get hurt,” Kurt says.

Rachel reaches out across the sofa and snatches a slice of the specially ordered vegan pizza sat on the coffee table. “Look Kurt,” she says. “I know you were right about Jesse—”

“Berry, even I could see that it wasn’t going to end well—”

“—But you have to accept that Blaine has to make his own mistakes,” Rachel finishes, shooting Santana a disapproving look. “I _knew_ what kind of a person Jesse was – anyone who’s ever worked in PR knows what kinds of people we deal with – but I still went for it. Let him make his own choices.”

“Besides, Kurt,” Santana adds, “it’s been three weeks and so far, have there been any signs that the relationship is imploding?”

Kurt sighs. “No,” he says reluctantly.

“So how much of this is actual concern for Blaine,” Santana goes on with a teasing grin, “and how much of it is jealousy?”

Kurt opens his mouth to protest – _loudly_ protest – when he hears a knock at his door. He turns to Santana. “ _Please_ tell me you didn’t order me another strippergram.”

“Oh come on,” Santana says as she takes another bite of pizza. “That was the _best_ twenty-first birthday present ever and you know it.”

“My dad was the one who answered the door,” Kurt retorts, shaking his head as he gets up to answer the door. “I was so sure he was going to keel over with another heart attack right then and there.”

Kurt opens the door and—

Stops.

His eyes widen.

“Kurt, what is it?” Rachel asks from behind him.

Kurt feels his features morph into an expression but he has no clue what it is.

There on his doorstep, soaked through to the skin, blood soaking his hairline and face bruised, is Blaine.

Blaine shifts. “Can I come in?”

Kurt wordlessly pushes the door open all the way.

* * *

Blaine can feel himself shaking. He doesn’t know if it’s from the cold, or from residual adrenalin – he just wants it to _stop._

The first thing he notices when Kurt opens the door all the way is that he’s not alone; Santana and Rachel are there, halfway through a pizza by the looks of things.

“I’m sorry,” Blaine says. “I’ll—I’ll go.”

Rachel’s by his side immediately, carefully guiding him further into the apartment. “Oh my God, Blaine,” she rushes out. “What happened?”

Santana’s eyes harden and Blaine can feel her inspecting his face. It’s not that bad, is it—

“Sit,” Santana commands, standing to make room for Blaine on the sofa.

Feeling disturbingly like a small child about to be scolded, Blaine gingerly perches on the edge of Kurt’s sofa. Santana approaches and takes to examining his face, careful not to skewer his eye with her scarily red nails.

Kurt shakes his head. “What happened, Blaine?” he asks softly.

“I—” Blaine starts, then stops. He hadn’t actually got this far in his plan – past knocking on Kurt’s door – and he doesn’t really know what to say.

Kurt seems to read Blaine’s hesitance for something else and narrows his eyes. “Did he do this to you?” he asks sharply.

Blaine flinches.

“Kurt,” Rachel murmurs, carefully holding him back, “don’t scare him.”

Kurt shakes Rachel off his arm. “Did James Pope do this to you, Blaine?” Kurt presses, and Blaine just thinks, _Does it matter?_ And, _Why can’t you just leave it alone?_

“Kurt,” Santana says severely. “You’re not helping.”

Kurt opens his mouth to argue, then closes it. He shuts his eyes, inhaling deeply and then exhaling. In. Out. In. Out.

He opens his eyes.

“Rachel, Santana, could you give us a second?”

There’s a moment of silent conversation between the three of them, and part of Blaine wishes he could understand, but he’s tired and curiosity is exhausting. Rachel and Santana both leave barely seconds later, padding away to the kitchen with bare feet.

Kurt sits down in front of Blaine. “What happened?” he asks calmly.

Blaine bites his lip. _Say it, say it, say it, just get it over with, say it._

Kurt puts a hand on top of Blaine’s wrist. “Did James Pope do this to you?” he repeats.

_Say it, say it, say it, just say it, Anderson—_

Blaine nods.

Kurt exhales, “Jesus Christ.” He runs a hand through his hair and blinks a few times. “Okay,” he eventually says. “I know you’re probably exhausted and concussed, but I need an answer to this. What do you want?”

A pause.

A breath.

“Blaine,” Kurt goes on, “if you give me the word, I will tear James Pope limb for limb. No one does defamation like I do, but I need to know, Blaine. What. Do. You. Want?”

“I want—”

A pause.

A breath.

“I want out.”

A pause.

A breath.

Kurt nods. “I can do that.” He turns to the doorway to the kitchen. “Santana?” he calls.

Santana emerges, phone in hand, already dialling. “Already on it.”

“Rachel?”

“I know,” Rachel says, crossing the apartment from the kitchen to where her handbag is lying on the floor. She pulls it open and retrieves the same digital SLR camera she used to take the company anniversary photo. In any other circumstance, Blaine would be rolling his eyes, because, seriously, that thing is _heavy_ and Rachel seems to carry it _everywhere._

“Blaine,” Rachel says as she pops off the shutter-cap. “I’m going to take some photos of your injuries. Are the ones on your face the only ones you have?”

“Yeah,” Blaine nods, but stops when he realises it makes him want to throw up. “He just—just my face, yes.”

“Blaine,” Kurt asks, drawing his attention away from Rachel, “do you want me to call the police?”

Blaine almost shakes his head, but thinks better of it just in time. “No,” he says quickly. “No.”

Rachel lowers her camera, squinting at Blaine’s face. “Kurt,” she says. “I think he may have a concussion. Maybe we should—”

Kurt throws his mobile phone at her. “Call Quinn,” he instructs. “She should be off work by now.”

Rachel frowns. “Kurt, Quinn’s a plastic surgeon,” she states slowly.

“A medical degree’s a medical degree,” Kurt says, shrugging it off. “Look, Rachel, I don’t know about you, but I’ve had enough to drink that I’m going to have to wait a couple of hours before I can drive and I know for a fact that Santana is so over the maximum blood alcohol level it’s not even funny. An ambulance would attract too much attention, and Quinn lives three blocks away. She can get here before we can get Blaine to a hospital.”

It’s getting really loud, and Blaine’s head hurts. And it’s getting darker. He’s probably lost a lot of blood – head wounds bleed a lot, right? He read that somewhere.

“Kurt—”

“—let him sleep—”

“—Blaine!”

Blaine finds himself being shaken to attention, and, oh God – “I’m going to be sick,” he croaks out.

Someone shoves a wastepaper bin in his face and Blaine promptly loses the contents of his stomach in it. And, ugh, throwing up is supposed to make you feel better, isn’t it? But Blaine just feels worse.

“Kurt,” and that’s Rachel’s voice, right? “Kurt, we need to get him to a hospital.”

And then there’s Santana: “I don’t know if you’ve ever tried to make a serious business call with the sounds of someone throwing up in the background… Kurt, he really doesn’t look so hot.”

“Kurt?” Rachel again.

“Hospital. Now.”

* * *

**_REVIEW:_ ** **White Coats _, a psychological thriller starring Cooper Anderson_**

_Those of you who’ve followed Anderson’s work will be surprised to see him stepping out of his normal role as the likeable love-interest and stepping into something more sinister._ White Coats _follows Peter Sechs (Cooper Anderson), a forensic accountant who ends up uncovering a startling secret about his father’s pharmaceutical company._

 _As a movie,_ White Coats _steadfastly refuses to pull any punches – whether it comes to the script or the budget – and what emerges is a sleek and well-primed motion picture. The casting of Cooper Anderson – though initially eyebrow-raising – proves to have been a wise choice. Anderson isn’t afraid to take Peter to dark places and his boyish charm takes on a horrifying edge when accompanied by a dangerous smirk or diabolical grin._

**NOTES:  
Told. You. So. (What was that you said? I’m sorry, I can’t hear your response over the sound of how right I am.)**

* * *

“He’s here,” Santana says as Kurt shuffles through the folder on his desk again.

It had been easy to locate everything he needed – a fact that made Kurt feel slightly ill, because it was Blaine who spent three hours properly creating a filing system and implementing it in their office. He went through everything last night, a throbbing headache already setting in as his body began to process the stupendous quantity of alcohol he had drunk, each hour bringing a new level of clarity and persistent pain to his work.

Kurt nods. “Okay,” he says. “Send him in.”

Santana turns around to leave, but hesitates at the last second and spins back around to face Kurt. “Are you sure this is what you want to do?” she asks.

“It’s legal,” Kurt tells her dismissively. “I checked the contracts.”

“No, Kurt,” Santana presses. “I mean, _are you sure this is what you want to do_?”

Kurt exhales sharply, gathering the file in his hands and staring Santana down. “When we were in high school together, Santana,” he says, “and you saw those bruises on my arms, what did you tell me?”

“Kurt—”

Kurt cuts across her, “You said, Santana, ‘There is no excuse for violence,’ and then you threatened to crack the nuts of a footballer who was twice your size.”

“Kurt,” Santana says softly, “James Pope isn’t Karofsky.”

“And Blaine isn’t me,” Kurt states. “I know we work in PR, Santana, and we make our money by making bad men look good, but there’s a _line_ , Santana, and we don’t cross it.” He sighs. “There always has to be a line.”

“I know several juries who would class what you’re about to do as crossing the line,” Santana tells him, raising her eyebrows pointedly.

“Somehow I think I’ll be able to sleep at night,” Kurt says. “Send him in.”

Santana nods, walking out, but pauses once more. “Kurt,” she says.

Kurt raises his eyebrows.

Santana flashes her teeth. “Rule three. Give him hell.”

* * *

Cooper doesn’t know what to think.

He knows well enough what it’s like to be on the other end of this exchange – to be the one lying unconscious in the hospital bed – but he’s never really given much thought to what it must do to Blaine, seeing him like that. This smacks of the last few moments of his parents’ life, and though Blaine isn’t going to be dying any time soon – _it’s just a concussion, Mr Anderson, he should wake up soon_ – Cooper can’t erase the image of his father, hooked up to breathing apparatus, looking so weak and such a far cry from the man who was always so strong for them all.

Cooper sinks down into a chair by Blaine’s bedside, running his hands through his hair.

It’s just—

He’s supposed to be the one protecting Blaine, but Blaine has always been so forceful when it comes to his independence and sometimes it’s easy for Cooper to forget that his little brother is only twenty. Blaine’s always been determined to grow up too fast – to force himself into adulthood – and Cooper’s not sure it was the right choice to let him. It’s hard to see his younger brother as a child when Blaine is running around and running background checks on all his dates, or lecturing him on body language, or telling him that he _told him_ that branching out into different genres was a good idea, _and why did you ever doubt me, huh_?

But Blaine makes mistakes. He’s just that much better at covering them up than most people.

So sometimes it takes Cooper far too long to clue in that Blaine is in over his head.           

Cooper’s phone buzzes in his pocket, and he immediately scrambles to put it on silent. He’s not supposed to have it on in the hospital, but he’s in a bit of a precarious position with the director of his current project – running off set in the middle of shooting a sex-scene is probably not the best way to endear yourself to the man who is, for all intents and purposes, your boss.

**_Felicity:  
_ ** _Cooper, where are you? I’ve been waiting for you for half an hour already._

Cooper sighs.

True, he was supposed to meet Felicity for dinner just under half an hour ago, but—

Family comes first.

Family always comes first.

**_Cooper:  
_ ** _Can’t make it. Sorry. Family emergency. Please don’t shoot me?_

Bare moments later, Felicity’s reply comes in.

**_Felicity:  
_ ** _We’ve been over this, Cooper. I’m not going to shoot you. I don’t even own a gun._

Then:

**_Felicity:  
_ ** _Is Blaine OK?_

Felicity gets it.

It’s weird, because Cooper never saw himself as the type to date someone from outside the industry. He’s not prejudiced, or anything, he just doesn’t really have much of a chance to meet someone who isn’t in the same world as him half the time. As it turned out, all Cooper had to do was mistakenly enter the women’s bathroom after an eighteen-hour long day on set, and bam, he has a dinner date with a lovely woman and a suitably embarrassing meet-cute story to tell the grandkids. It’s just as well they met how they did; Felicity isn’t even remotely close to being _in_ the industry. She works as a high school teacher – teaching _physics,_ of all things – but she’s everything Cooper could ever want in a woman.

She’s smart, beautiful, doesn’t let Cooper get away with half the shit he tries to pull, and, best of all, has Blaine’s tentative approval.

She also gets that to Cooper, there’s nothing more important than his brother.

Cooper pulls out his phone and taps out a reply.

**_Cooper:  
_ ** _I don’t know._

**_Felicity:  
_ ** _Do you need me to come by?_

**_Cooper:  
_ ** _I’m at the hospital._

**_Felicity:  
_ ** _Which one?_

**_Cooper:  
_ ** _Huntington Memorial._

There’s a pause in their flow of conversation for a few minutes, before Felicity’s reply comes in.

**_Felicity:  
_ ** _There’s a hotel across the street. I’ll book you a room and bring you over some clothes. Do you want me to stay with you?_

**_Cooper:  
_ ** _I think I need to be alone._

**_Felicity:  
_ ** _Call me if you need anything. I’ll see you at the hotel ASAP. I’m going to call your PA (George?) and get him to negotiate some leave from set._

**_Cooper:  
_ ** _I love you so much._

**_Felicity:  
_ ** _I love you too._

* * *

As soul-destroying as he finds it sometimes, Kurt Hummel is good at his job.

In the name of positive publicity, Kurt has done some pretty reprehensible things over the years – all legal, not all morally-sound. There have been pay-offs, boldfaced lies, and more than a little bit of blackmail.

That said, Kurt prefers to keep things clean.

What he said to Santana is true. He’s long since reconciled with the idea that PR is an industry based on deception – this is what they _do_ – but there’s also a point beyond which Kurt won’t venture.

He doesn’t want to become someone that scares himself. Not again.

When Kurt was in high school, there was this _guy._ A typical strapping jock – he inhaled red meat and sweated testosterone. He had … _issues_ with Kurt. And things quickly got out of control.

Kurt doesn’t really like to think about it, but it got to the point where school was like living in a horror movie. He was scared for his _life._ He was scared for his _body._ And yet he kept making these excuses for this guy, kept telling himself that what he was going through – this personal _hell_ – was justifiable.

And then it went too far.

But Kurt was never physically strong. He didn’t fight with his fists; he’s always been the type to fight with his mind.

So Kurt called in the favour the school badass owed him, planted 50g of crack in the jock’s locker and got him expelled.

It scared Kurt, that he was capable of doing that. What scared him more, though, was the fact that he knew he would never feel guilty about doing it.

But he knows now. He knows that he _can_ and _will_ go that far. That doesn’t scare him anymore. What scares him is the idea that he might go that far for some asshole with an ego almost as big as their paycheque.

Kurt Hummel is good at his job, but it just so happens to be one of the things he’s ambivalent towards excelling in.

So Kurt doesn’t really do this sort of thing much. There are practical reasons to the fact that Kurt prefers the opposite to this type of spin – say what you want, defamation is _messy_ – but he will admit that it is marginally easier. The general public – that is excluding the vast majority of preteen fan-girls and -boys – are determined to think the worst of people. A well-timed rumour in the right place can escalate to a trending hashtag, and then it’s only be a matter of time before one of the major blogs on Tumblr picks up the story; once something goes viral, there’s no taking it back.

With a few choice words in the right places, Kurt could destroy a perfect reputation in a matter of hours.

Of course, a good publicist can prevent that sort of thing from ever happening. An excellent publicist is who you hire to rebuild that old reputation out of its tattered shreds.

Kurt’s good his job. He knows the five cardinal rules of PR. He _invented_ the five cardinal rules of PR.

So, Kurt brushes a strand of hair from his face, puts a mask on his face, and smiles genially at James Pope as the singer walks in.

_Rule five._

“Thanks for coming in,” Kurt says, demeanour falsely light. “Do you want to take a seat?”

“Santana said on the phone that you wanted to talk about some strategies?” James prompts as he sinks into one of the leather chairs across from Kurt.

Kurt tilts his head to the side and slowly lets his smile become fake. “Well,” he says. “Not being an abusive asshole might be a good place to start.”

James blinks at him. “I’m not sure what you’re trying to—”

Kurt lets the smile drop off his face.

“This is how it’s going to go, James Pope,” Kurt says, flipping open his folder. “You’re going to sit there and listen to me talk. Because I’m going to say things you most certainly are going to want to hear.”

Kurt pulls the first item from his file. While juvenile records are normally sealed, it pays some to have the Chief of the LAPD owe you a few favours, namely in that you got his estranged son out of juvie back when he was in high school.

He places it down on the table.

“When you were seventeen,” Kurt recites lightly, “you got done on two charges of assault. You had been drinking at the time and thought it would be fun to start a fight at a party. The police were called, they wrote you up, no charges were pressed. You may call it teenage stupidity; the media and I, for that matter, call it ‘establishing a pattern of behaviour’. But hey, pot-ay-to, pot-ah-to.”

“What is the point of—”

Kurt simply shakes his head. “Not yet, George Wickham, I’m not done with show-and-tell.” He pulls another item out of the file. “Your ex-girlfriend – man, she really hates you, doesn’t she? You weren’t lying when you said that split wasn’t amicable, but I guess you _were_ lying when you led me to believe it was because of your sexuality. Remember Celia? Pretty, art history major, ran away to Europe to get away from you?”

Kurt watches James’ mouth fall open in an honest gape. Kurt continues without prejudice. “I tracked her down – not many girls in Europe who can claim to have been your bed-mate – and gave her a call. And the _things_ she said about you. Put it this way: if they were to interview her, it would have to be so far past the watershed it wouldn’t even be funny. My personal favourite, though, has to be, ‘I’d sooner fuck a porcupine from behind than see that alcoholic bastard again from across a crowded room.’ A bit crude, but I like her passion. Which brings us to the last part of our guided tour.”

Kurt slams the last pages from the folder on the table with far more force than necessary. James jumps and Kurt has to crush a sadistic smile.

“Blaine Anderson,” Kurt states, willing his voice into a level tone. “He was admitted into one of the city’s hospitals last night with a pretty severe concussion. The doctor reckons some asshat threw a beer bottle at his head. His brother – Cooper Anderson, heard of him? – seemed to think that was pretty strange. I mean, Blaine’s only twenty, and he hates going to bars. Weird, huh?”

Kurt leans forward in his chair, eyes narrowed and staring right into James’. “That’s what I’ve got from barely three hours’ worth of digging. Think how much dirt I could get if I dedicated a day, or, heck, even a week to it. You know who I am, James Pope, and you know what I do. I changed Tina Cohen-Chang from an angry Asian woman with no volume control into a mother figure for every woman in America. I transformed Sebastian Smythe from a self-destructive, reckless _man-whore,_ into a charming, confident TV _sensation._ Compared to that, making a too-good-to-be-true Steve Rogers wannabe look like a _violent drunk_ is child’s play.”

James’ mouth sets in a firm line. “You’re not going to take that to the press,” he says but his voice is strained.

Kurt raises an eyebrow. “Aren’t I?” Because he would. He would do it in a heartbeat.

“Sending that in will just throw Blaine into the spotlight,” James explains. “And given that I didn’t even have a clue he was Cooper Anderson’s brother until now, I’m going to go ahead and guess that that’s not a place he wants to be.”

Kurt leans back in his chair. “The mistake you’re making,” he says, “is that you think that I’m going to let that stop me. Or that the people in the PR business care a great deal about morals.” Kurt fixes James Pope with a disdainful look. “Don’t deign yourself to judge what I’m willing and not willing to do.”

James Pope’s face doesn’t shift from its stony expression.

Kurt gathers his pieces of paper back up.

“The question,” Kurt supplies helpfully, “I think you’re looking for is: _what do you want?_ ”

* * *

**PART FOUR: RULE FOUR  
_Know when to call it quits. When you’ve lost, you’ve lost, and it’s time to start on damage-control._**

* * *

 

When Blaine opens his eyes, the first thing he notices is that his head doesn’t hurt.

The second is that there’s someone asleep at the foot of his bed.

Squinting under the bright fluorescence of the hospital lights, Blaine tries to make out the face of the person curled up – and dear God, that position looks painful – in a chair by the end of his bed. As his eyes adjust to the brightness, Blaine can see a head of tousled black hair, and a familiar set of features on a face that is worth more than most people can _dream._

“Coop?” Blaine asks tiredly. There’s no response. Blaine sighs. “Coop,” he repeats.

No response.

Cooper was always a deep sleeper.

In any other circumstance, Blaine would probably shout to get Cooper awake. Or try and kick him in the face.

But, as it stands, Blaine doesn’t have the energy. He feels groggy – like someone put glue in his eyelashes when he was sleeping – and can’t reconcile himself with the idea of having to explain this … mess to Cooper.

It’s cowardly, but Blaine thinks he’s entitled to a bit of cowardice. So he closes his eyes and lets himself drift off.

* * *

 

Blaine, of course, can’t avoid the conversation with his older brother forever. When it happens, it’s painful in the all the worst possible ways. Blaine keeps waiting for a lecture – some form of admonition – but it never comes.

Cooper just _looks_ at him, an expression that conveys so much – gratefulness, desperation, relief, love, tiredness…

“I was so worried about you, Squirt,” Cooper says, gripping Blaine’s hand so hard he cuts the circulation off.

Blaine nods mutely.

* * *

“Hey.”

Blaine looks up from his magazine – _Us Weekly_ are running a scoop on Cooper’s love-life and Blaine is laughing at the sheer volume of experts there are out there trying to diagnose his brother with some kind of complex – at the sound of Kurt’s voice in the doorway of his hospital room.

“Hey,” Blaine returns easily.

When you work in a job that leads to rubbing shoulders with some of the hottest names to grace the silver screens, it’s easy, Blaine supposes, to lose yourself in the glamour of it all. To drown in the romance of the moment – the thrill of excitement that comes with thinking you’re living a real life fairy tale.

It’s effortless.

And that’s what makes Blaine feel so stupid about all this.

Because he thought he was past all that. Maybe one time he would have been there in the crowds, clamouring for an autograph, or a smile, or even a passing glance, but Blaine grew up. Everybody grows up.

This all just makes Blaine feel so _young._ He doesn’t like the feeling.

“How are you feeling?” Kurt asks, perching on the edge of Blaine’s bed.

Blaine manages a dopey smile. “Pretty good.”

Kurt smiles minutely – _I’m glad,_ it seems to ready – before he takes a deep breath and averts his eyes from Blaine’s form. “You don’t have to worry about James Pope anymore.”

Blaine feels his heart stop in his chest. “Why—” he stutters. “What did you—what?”

Kurt swallows thickly, brow straightening. “He’s not going to come near you ever again, Blaine,” Kurt says, and it sounds like a promise. It also sounds like a threat.

“How?” The question leaps from Blaine’s throat before he can stop it. It’s the wrong question word, really. _Why,_ is the most prevalent question playing on Blaine’s mind, but he can’t—doesn’t want to ask that.

Kurt’s smile takes on a sharp edge. “I don’t think you really want to know the answer to that,” he says wryly.

“Plausible deniability?” Blaine asks lightly.

Kurt shrugs. “Something like that.”

They break into an uncomfortable silence. Blaine doesn’t know what to say – what the protocol is for this – except—

“Thank you.”

Kurt blinks, looking like Blaine has just punched him in the gut. “I…” he starts, and he looks the most unsure Blaine has ever seen him. “I protect the people I care about.”

There’s more to it than that, and Blaine thinks they both know it, but Kurt stops Blaine from pushing with a rapid subject change. “I went back and looked at a lot of the publicity work from the beginning of your brother’s career,” Kurt tells Blaine. He smiles. “It was good work. Amateurish, and God knows it had all the marks of someone inexperienced, but it was good work. You’re a good publicist, Blaine, and if you wanted, you could turn this industry into your oyster. I just…” Kurt studies Blaine’s face. “I don’t think that’s what you want, is it?”

It’s Blaine’s turn to look like someone’s sucker-punched him in the gut. “I,” he starts to say, but soon realises he doesn’t know the words for what he’s thinking. “I don’t know.”

Kurt shrugs easily. “Take some time to figure that out,” he commands softly. “Sometimes it’s better not just to take the path of least resistance. You’re young. You have time.”

“When do you need me back at work?” Blaine asks.

Kurt gives him a dead stare, like he’s just said something really, _really_ dumb. “I’m releasing you from your contract,” Kurt informs him flatly. “You’re not in the best state to work for the last couple of days of your internship. If it were me, I’d go home. Unwind. Think a lot.”

Blaine manages a bitter half-laugh. “I don’t really know where home is for me anymore, Kurt.”

There’s New York, of course, where he’s studying, but it’s never really felt like a _home_ to Blaine. It’s just somewhere he lives and gets his mail. And there’s Cooper’s condo here in LA, but Blaine has never really felt welcome there; it’s Cooper’s space and Blaine feels uncomfortable staying there for even a few days.

Kurt pauses, staring at Blaine. “This is for you,” he says, holding something out. Blaine takes it, immediately recognising his face in the framed photo. Along the bottom are the words, _Hummel Berry PR 2014._ “I guess it doesn’t exactly capture either of us at our best, but Rachel wanted you to have it.”

Kurt pushes up off Blaine’s bed, hesitating. Then: “Ohio.”

“What?”

“Home,” Kurt elaborates. “For me. It’s Ohio. It’s where my dad is.”

“Huh.” Blaine frowns. “I grew up there. In Westerville. Before my parents…” he trails off, unwilling to finish the sentence with the words everyone knows.

Kurt quirks an eyebrow at him. “No kidding,” he says. “I grew up in Lima.”

“Huh.”

There’s not much else for either of them to say. Kurt shifts on his feet. “I’ll go now,” he eventually says.

As Kurt turns to leave, it strikes Blaine that this may be the last time he ever sees this man. Panic bubbles up in his throat and—

“Kurt,” Blaine says. “If things had been different—if we’d med back then—in Ohio—do you think…”

Kurt pauses in the doorway. “Do I think what?”

“That we’d have been good together?” Blaine rushes out.

Kurt looks contemplative. “Things…” he shakes his head. “I was a different person back then, Blaine.”

“So, no?”

“Get some rest, Blaine.”

He leaves.

* * *

**PART FIVE: RULE FIVE  
_There is a line. Don’t cross it. It is more important to be a good person than a good publicist._**

* * *

 

Elliott still hasn’t made up his mind about whether befriending Kurt was the best or worst decision he ever made. Kurt was the first friend Elliott made in the big city, and, little did he know it at the time, pretty much the only friend Elliott would make there.

Kurt’s probably Elliott’s best friend – and vice-versa – which is how Elliott knows that there’s something up when Kurt doesn’t even blink when he changes the channel away from a Project Runway rerun.

“Okay,” Elliott says, reaching to turn to the television off. “What’s up with you, Kurt?”

Kurt blinks twice. “Nothing.”

Elliott hopes his face conveys exactly how _little_ he’s buying that. “For someone who proclaims he’s a professional liar—”

“Truth manipulator, Elliott,” Kurt cuts in. Elliott ignores him.

“—You aren’t half easy to read the rest of the time,” Elliott finishes. “Come on, don’t insult my intelligence by trying to pretend that everything’s A-okay in the world of Kurt Hummel.” Elliott pauses. “This is about the whole James Pope thing, isn’t it?”

Kurt gives Elliott a strange look, like he can’t understand how Elliott is so good at reading him, before he shrugs and relaxes his body back onto the couch. “Kind of,” he hedges.

“Do you regret what you did?” Elliott asks, even though he’s certain this isn’t the case. Kurt is many things – some great, some not so great – but he isn’t the type of person who regrets doing the right thing.

Kurt confirms Elliott’s theory when he shakes his head. “Not even a little bit,” he says without hesitation. He manages a small smile. “Rule five and all.”

Elliott allows himself to mirror Kurt’s smile. “I’d forgotten about your six rules of PR,” he says.

It was back when Elliott’s first album had just gone platinum, and he and Kurt were getting outrageously drunk together in his apartment. A drunken Elliott had asked how Kurt did all the PR stuff. A drunken Kurt had proclaimed that there were six rules he always followed, and then proceeded to scrawl them in the last free page of Elliott’s song writing book.

The only thing is—

Now, Kurt’s looking at Elliott _really_ strangely – not like he’s trying to figure Elliott out, but like he has _no_ idea what Elliott is talking about. It’s not a look Elliott sees often on his friend’s face.

After a long pause, Kurt says, “Elliott, there are only five rules.”

“Um,” Elliott replies, “I’m pretty sure there are six.”

“I’m pretty sure I _invented_ the five rules of PR, _Elliott,_ ” Kurt retorts, “so I think I’m the leading authority on how many there are.”

Oh God, _this_ is what they’ve chosen to argue about? There isn’t even any need for this discussion – Elliott still has _written_ proof of the sixth rule’s existence.

Standing up from the couch, Elliott rolls his eyes at Kurt before he pulls an old and battered journal down from his bookshelf. He throws it at Kurt. “The last page,” he tells him.

For a second, Kurt looks dumbly down at the old journal, but then he’s gingerly opening it and flicking through it until he comes to the page in question – right at the back, the only page with Kurt’s ludicrous cursive on it.

_Kurt Hummel’s Six Rules of PR._

Kurt stares down at the page. “Oh.” He stands abruptly. “I have to go.”

And now _Elliott’s_ looking at Kurt like he has no idea what he’s talking about. “Where?”

Kurt’s answer makes even less sense than his original statement. “New York.”

“Okay,” Elliott says, drawing out the last syllable as Kurt pulls out his phone. “Are you sure you’re not being rash like the time you decided Tequila was a good idea and then got a misspelled tattoo?”

Kurt shoots Elliott a look – _I can’t believe you’d bring that up_ – before he presses his phone to his ear. “Hey, Santana,” he says. “Can you get Rita to book me a flight to New York? Now? Thanks.” Kurt hangs up.

“Elliott,” Kurt says seriously as he jams his feet into his shoes. “You are the best best-friend ever.”

“Right back at’cha,” Elliott says, bemused. Kurt kisses him on the cheek – which, all things considered, is not actually the strangest thing Kurt has done to him – before bolting out of the door.

Elliott stares at the spot where just minutes earlier, his best friend was sitting. This sort of thing kind of comes with the territory of being Kurt’s friend, he supposes. Kurt’s always living life like he’s the lead in a TV drama.

Elliott sighs, before switching the TV back on and switching the channel back to Project Runway.

* * *

 

It’s three am.

Seconds earlier, Blaine was asleep.

It’s three am.

_And there is someone knocking on Blaine’s door._

Did he mention that it’s three am?

Blaine is actually going to _kill_ Peter. With knives. And maybe a blunt object as well, for good measure.

Rubbing his eyes, Blaine pulls the door open, and…

That’s not Peter.

“Kurt?” The word escapes Blaine’s lips before he can stop it, his eyes flickering over the travel-worn man in front of him.

Kurt looks like he hasn’t slept in three days, and hasn’t bathed in a little longer than that. There’s fresh stubble on his normally smooth cheeks, and his suit is rumpled beyond belief.

“I’m not a good person,” Kurt tells Blaine. He sounds raw, desperate. “I’ve done some pretty deplorable things. I’ve said some pretty deplorable things. I have _lied_ about doing and saying some pretty deplorable things. But if you can know that and still…” Kurt takes a deep breath. “I want this. To try. With you.”

It’s three am, Blaine should be asleep, and Blaine doesn’t actually know where his roommate is. It’s not the right time for him to making big decisions.

So maybe it’s a mistake, but for the first time since he met Kurt, Blaine doesn’t think. He doesn’t draw up arguments in his head, doesn’t chant them again and again like a mantra.

He just presses their lips together and finally, _finally,_ he can breathe.

* * *

**END: RULE SIX  
_It’s just your job; it’s not who you are. Be selfish sometimes._**

* * *

 

**_Cooper Anderson Switches To Hummel Berry PR: Is Our Favourite Star In The Closet?_ **

_Hummel Berry PR are known for their discretion in dealing with all matters concerning Coming Out (with the capital letters), and are widely acknowledged as the industry experts in this field. So what does Cooper Anderson’s – everyone’s favourite A-lister – recent switch to their client base mean?_

**Notes:**  
Cooper, did I not tell you this was a bad idea? I know it’s your idea of showing support, but… I hope you can picture just how much I’m rolling my eyes right now.  
PS: Kurt wants to know if you and Felicity want to go out for lunch after my graduation. Text me so we can make a reservation.  
PPS: Just because half the restaurants in NY would throw out their most loyal regular to get you a table, does not mean we don’t need a reservation. TEXT ME. I mean it.

 


End file.
